


A Love Story told in Lunches

by baekhyun (baruna)



Series: friendly maneuvers [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Jokaste is so hardcore she basically wrote herself, M/M, bg damen/laurent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6002002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baruna/pseuds/baekhyun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do continue,” Laurent said. “I find your attempt at dominance mildly interesting.”</p><p>Jokaste said, “Unfortunately, I do not find your attempt at playing nonchalance interesting at all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love Story told in Lunches

**Author's Note:**

> I would recommend reading the first part of this series first, though it's not necessary!

Jokaste reevaluated her opinion of Auguste the day he threw up on her shoes. 

She had been invited to his fraternity party, thanks to Damen. She was a freshman, and Damen was her short-term fling. He had wandered off to the beer pong table, and Jokaste held herself regal, wishing she had a glass of wine instead of cheap beer. 

She was truly going to die of boredom, so she meandered back to Damen’s side, one hand solidly landing on his shoulder. Even drunk, he seemed to sense her presence as more ominous than comforting. Jokaste resisted a sly smile. 

Good. She liked it when people took her seriously.

“Damianos.” Jokaste started. “Who is that.”

Damen lifted a head of dark curls, narrowing his eyes at where her index finger pointed sharply.

“Which one? You’re pointing at a whole crowd of people.” Damen asked, squinting. His handsome features were easy and open, a sign of the alcohol.

“You incompetent drunk,” Jokaste replied smoothly, “I’m talking about the blond one.”

Damen ignored her comment—they had been initially infatuated with each other. But Jokaste had ceased her manipulating attentions when she realized he was a truly good person. There was still an element of flirtation to their interactions, but Jokaste was too focused on other, more important things. Like graduating magna cum laude. Now, they were more close friends than lovers, though Jokaste acknowledged that Damen was indeed a catch, and he probably would not be averse to starting a relationship with her. She pushed the idea uncomfortably away. 

She didn’t care to know what he thought of her— it was probably very exalting, because he was that type of person.

Damen’s face brightened when he realized who she had been pointing at.

“Oh! That’s Auguste, my fraternity big. He’s a good man.” 

Jokaste pursued her lips. “He looks idiotic.”

Damen shot her an unamused glance. “That’s what you said about me, and now look where we are.” He threw an arm around her shoulders and laughed at the look on her face. Still, she let him do it. It was possibly due to the fact that she was not completely sober, herself.

“That’s true.” Jokaste said. “Now I must suffer through you daily. I should kill him before that happens.” 

For some reason, an intoxicated Damen found that very funny, and laughed uproariously. Jokaste raised an eyebrow at him and went off to find the restroom. She needed a refresher from the stiflingly hot room. 

That was when a large body bumped into her. She stumbled back with a forced exhale.

Jokaste lifted her eyes upwards. A toss of golden-yellow hair, a solid, arched nose, and defined cheekbones. Icy, blue eyes. The features together amalgamated into classically handsome, European features. It was the man from before, Auguste— and Jokaste noted in her detached way that up-close, the man was even _better_  looking than before.

Auguste looked at her. Then he blinked, looking at her again.

“Shit.” Auguste said. Then, “Holy fuck.”

His mouth had dropped open, and he was swaying precariously from his upright position.

Jokaste wondered if he was going to fall. Her mouth settled into a frown. Attractiveness would not save him from a critical evaluation of his character, and her consensus of him thus far was not positive. Auguste’s eyes wandered over her eyes, her mouth—his lips were still drawn apart in stunned quietness.

Jokaste said, “I need you to move.”

There was a small furrow in his brow— as if it took all his concentration to process her words.

“I’m not hitting on you.” Auguste finally replied, half to himself, and turned abruptly red. He hastily said, “I don’t hit on girls like you when I’m this drunk.”

“I see.” Jokaste said. “Then what are you doing?”

“I’m—I’m trying not to throw up.” Auguste forced out. He maintained a look of nauseous uncomfortableness that had steadily increased through their short conversation, as if the night had caught up with him all at once. He truly was quite attractive, if not for the characteristic tainting stupidity of man. Jokaste almost wanted to sigh with disappointment.

Then, he leaned over and puked on Jokaste’s shoes. 

She stared at his head, and then her boots. They were white, genuine leather Fabiana Filippi's. 

Absolutely repugnant. Auguste was still heaving, trying to say something, and she shifted herself a step backwards to avoid the projectile landing area. A plan had already formed in her mind on how she would best preserve the quality of her shoes to reduce the red alcoholic stains.

“Oh my.” Jokaste said. 

She thought about leaving him there. The party was dying down, and everyone seemed too intoxicated to even pay attention to them. She saw Damen, in the corner of the room, talking to a pretty looking blonde, looking quite dizzy himself.

Jokaste resigned herself to helping them both.

 

 

 

“I only hit on girls like you when I’m sober. Because you’re dateable. Dateable girls are an alcohol-free zone or else I do something stupid like this.” Auguste’s voice was heavy as he rambled. Damen was at one shoulder and Jokaste at the other, as they balanced him tenuously. “Damen understands me, right?”

Damen let out a nervous chuckle. She knew it had to do with fraternity politics— Damen was still a pledge, and Auguste was the chapter Vice President. Damen’s responses were filtered by social etiquette and seniority. It did not alleviate Jokaste’s irritation, however.

“Damianos is too respectable to understand you.” Jokaste replied smoothly, before Damen could reply. Damen paled and mouthed something at her that was impossible to make out in the dark of the hallway. She ignored him.

“Holy shit.” Auguste repeated. “You remind me of my brother.”

“You have a brother?” Damen interjected, interest piqued. “I didn’t know that.”

Auguste nodded solemnly. 

“He has the face of a pretty Greek sculpture and the tongue of a poisonous snake.” Auguste informed them primly, sounding bloated and proud. “He’s great.”

“Compelling story.” Jokaste said dryly, and dumped him on the ground outside his room. Damen made eyes at her and she ignored him again. It was convenient that Auguste lived inside the fraternity house, meaning she could make a quick escape. It always smelled strange inside fraternity houses during parties, of urine and alcohol and puke. She was not a fan.

“Wait for me, okay?” Damen said to Jokaste, though his body was leaning over Auguste’s weight while helping inside the room.  They were whispering something to each other that Jokaste didn’t care to listen about.

Jokaste nodded, picking at her fingernails and sighing at her shoes.

Damen was the honorable sort; the type of man that would walk her back to the dorms all the way, even if they were not living in the same building. Because he was a gentleman like that. 

When Damen came out, shutting the door softly behind him, Jokaste sighed again, and Damen smiled humorously at her, before his face came over with nausea.

“I’m fine.” Damen said, as they headed out together.

“Alright,” Jokaste said, and she let herself be the weight at his side, making sure he would not fall onto the damp streets.

 

 

 

It was a month later that Jokaste remembered Auguste; or rather, that she had the time to think about anything other than finals.

“I’d like to meet up with Auguste some time.” Jokaste mentioned casually, and Damen stopped mid-chew, before swallowing with difficulty. He was an official brother now, and spent more time with his fellow "bro's" than than his floormates. Still, he was very affable and managed to somehow still maintain a significant number of friends.

“Why?” Damen asked.

“He’s handsome.” Jokaste shrugged, her cardigan moving along her slender shoulders. 

Then, Damen said suddenly, “You’re not just asking about him for the money, right?”

He flushed.

Jokaste stared at him. And stared some more.

“Sorry.” Damen said, “It’s just that a lot of girls approach him because of his— family, and you know.”

Jokaste did know. It was common knowledge that Auguste was a corporate heir to his father, the Veretian mogul, and people gravitated towards those with power. It was only logical. She was no exception to human nature, so she was unsurprised that Damen would think that, even of her. She was, however, surprised that he was gutsy enough to voice it out loud. 

Damen looked like he was going to sweat gallons for every second it took for her to reply. 

“I’m sorry.” Damen said, and Jokaste waved a hand dismissively at him.

“It’s nothing,” Jokaste said, her hand settling lightly over his wrist as a show of dominance, “Just arrange me a lunch date with him to make it up to me.”

 

 

 

Damen came through with his promise the way only Damen would. Therefore, the first lunch was too-normal. But only at the beginning.

Auguste seemed to remember everything that happened when he was intoxicated, but was charismatic enough to brush it off. 

He had an easy smile on his handsome face, but it was one of sincerity and genuine interest. Jokaste berated herself for feeling the tug of attraction. She knew she liked the honorable, friendly types; she had a type, regrettably.

“So, Jokaste.” Auguste said, after they had been conversing casually for a while, “How do you know Damen?”

She picked at her salad delicately, eyelashes fluttering against the sunlight on the patio of the cafe. Auguste’s eyes followed her.

“We live in the same building. How do you know Damen?”

Auguste laughed. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

Jokaste swallowed, and schooled her features into that of cool disinterest. It was a facade; in fact, she was very interested. He was interesting.

“You’re right.” Jokaste said, “I do. The question is, how much do you know about me?”

“I don’t know much about you,” Auguste said, “But I know that you are very beautiful.”

Jokaste gave a thin smile. “Then I’ll tell you what I know about you.” She said, and Auguste’s smile was indulgent as he nodded at her lazily, the way an upperclassmen looked patronizingly at someone much younger than them. She regarded him with a cool gaze and prepared for the bullet. “I think that you hide behind your self-confidence—you're a good man, but the business world in which you were raised doesn’t cultivate goodness. A privileged background doesn’t ensure living safely. That is why you are worried.”

Auguste's smile was fading, fast.

“Perhaps for… your brother? He’s much younger than you, is he not?” There was a cloying smirk playing at Jokaste’s lips now. This game amused her. “Those who are young fall more easily from virtue, after all. I'm sure you find it very deplorable.”

Auguste’s body was tense. He was not smiling at all, now.

“I see now that I know nothing about you, while it seems you know quite a lot about me.” He said.

Jokaste replied, innocently: “But, I also know that you are very handsome.”

The look on Auguste’s face was one of a man realizing that their “lunch date” was not a date at all, but instead a complex, trap-like game. One where he was badly outmaneuvered and could only watch as he played into her hand. 

“You have an intricate mind.” Auguste said, and laughed sheepishly as he ran a hand through his hair. He was  _impressed_ , of all things.

“I can't say the same about you.” Jokaste said, and this time he really laughed.

 

 

 

It was a few days later that Jokaste had settled down into her bed, a book in hand, when her phone buzzed. She checked her messages. 

Her fingers hovered over her phone, thinking of a reply. She decided to turn it off. Unbelievable. 

 

 

 

The lunches continued for some time, and Jokaste found herself having fun. Auguste began each meeting with his guard heightened, only for Jokaste to lower it with seductive teasing and distracting words. Then, she would strike, and watch as he made a fool of himself again. But Auguste was still intelligent; just overwhelmingly honest and unguarded. He would improve quickly.

“What do you think of women?” Jokaste asked, once. They were at a Thai place this time. It was on the more expensive side, but they could both afford it. The importance was on the intimacy of the setting— the quieter the better.

Auguste stilled, hand on an iced glass of water. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do you think of women?” She asked again, studying his reactions. He seemed to be aware of her scrutinization.

“I don’t have particular thoughts on them.” Auguste replied carefully, fork poking at the food on his plate as Jokaste stared at him. 

“Would you force marriage.” Jokaste said. Her tone was neutral. 

He was refusing to look up at her. “I cannot force anything on someone who is unwilling.”

“Maybe not marriage.” Jokaste said quietly. She thought about her parents. “But other things.”

Auguste looked up this time, into her eyes. His gaze was hard and strong; he said firmly, “It’s wrong.”

Jokaste folded her napkin in her lap; her hands moved demurely, because men liked that. And society catered to the male gaze.

“Naturally.” Jokaste said smoothly. It was why she had such a biting tongue, with a viper's mind. It was how women like her _survived_.

“Naturally.” Auguste echoed.

 

 

 

In later years, when Jokaste was older and Damianos had already met Laurent, she found herself, for a period of time, with a recurring thought.

“What if we had continued to have sex?” Jokaste asked.

Damen looked up at her from his phone, confused. 

“But you like Auguste.” He said it in a matter-of-fact way.

“Yes,” Jokaste said slowly, as if speaking to a child, “But what if we had continued to sleep together?”

“I don’t follow.” Damen said, appearing uncomfortable, and Jokaste gave up her train of questioning. It was not worth it.

 

 

 

Once, Jokaste and Auguste were walking to a new venue, when Auguste ran into a distressed friend. They were heading to an Italian place that Jokaste had never been to. It had high Yelp reviews, and Jokaste was somewhat of a food connoisseur.

Auguste and his friend had done normal male-friend things, like shaking hands and grasping shoulders, laughing at each others greetings (“How are you, bro?” “I’m alright, fuck that final, haha!”) which Jokaste predictably rolled her eyes at. The friend had glanced at her from the corner of his eye and given her an appreciative look up, then down. She had crossed her arms and smiled tightly at him.

“This is Jokaste.” Auguste said, gesturing at her as if she was a normal acquaintance that he had not been meeting for lunch with for over three years. The way she talked about Auguste still gave Damen the impression they were not friends. She vaguely wondered if Auguste felt the same.

“Damn.” The friend said. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jord.”

Auguste began to probe with more specified questions, like “How is the rent situation going?” and “Are the students getting any leeway this year?”

Jord shook his head grimly. “It’s actually worse this year. Herode is charging significantly more for unnecessary things, like the security deposit.”

Jokaste’s interest perked. Herode was a stockholder under Auguste’s company. He was actually quite relevant to their college, as he maintained most housing properties near the campus and had contract holders that set yearly prices. Jokaste found it interesting that Auguste was not only informed about the housing situation, but also passionate enough to support advocacy one way or the other.

“Hey,” Auguste said suddenly, “I’m think I’m going to have to cancel this time.” 

His look was apologetic but fond, and he kept a strong hand on her arm, grip solid. 

“You’re going to talk to Herode.” Jokaste said with dawning understanding. A slight pause. “You're not joking.” 

“It’s not fair to do that to students in housing units that are already in poor condition.” Auguste said. He was dead serious.

She did not know how it was possible to be more attracted to him, but she was. 

“Go.” She said. He went.

 

 

 

When Laurent entered college, Jokaste felt as if she knew him.

From Damen, from Auguste— they were practically kin with how everyone said how similar they were. More potently, she knew of Auguste’s reverent, all-encompassing protection of him. Auguste’s love for his younger brother was overwhelming in a way that was difficult for Jokaste to comprehend. 

Laurent was not frequently reported. Only in things like the business section on the BBC website, or in the newspaper. She remembered opening the Business Daily Paper in the supermarket and scanning the pages, only to jolt in surprise at Laurent’s name, though the article seemed inaccurate.

It was certainly inaccurate.

Otherwise, he was very infrequently mentioned.

Still, he was important to Auguste, and Damen appeared to really like him. She bit down her jealousy at that— Damen was not her's, the same way she was no one’s. 

So, she orchestrated a lunch meeting. It was to happen on a Saturday afternoon, and she was a senior now, soon to graduate. The years had gone by quickly, and Damen was more infatuated with Laurent than ever.

“So, you are Jokaste.” Laurent said, leaning easily into the chair. 

He was very aristocratic and quite good looking. Not in the way his brother was— there was an elegant, arched way to Laurent's face, the way his cheekbones sliced into the air and his eyes unblinkingly kept contact with hers. Yet, there was something soft about his features, a possessive function of all beautiful people. She had it, too.

Jokaste could suddenly see why Damen liked him. Laurent was exactly his type.

She was equally as relaxed, though her mind was sharper than ever.

“So, you are Laurent.” She said. “Your looks, at least, live up to your reputation.”

“You can skip the pleasantries.” Laurent said. “Ask me about my brother.” His tone was casual, and one hand rested completely relaxed on the table. Jokaste stopped a finger from twitching. 

“No," Jokaste smiled. It was the nicest one she could put on. "Let us talk about Damianos.” 

She could sense all of his attention hone in on her, though there was no outward change in demeanor.

“He is very honorable and handsome and kind. Fucks like a champion, I can tell you that. Would you like tips on how to get him into bed? Or perhaps a play-by-play of what happened when we did it?” She was still smiling that nice, innocent smile of hers. It probably seemed venomously overdone.

“Do continue,” Laurent said. “I find your attempt at dominance mildly interesting.”

Jokaste said, “Unfortunately, I do not find your attempt at playing nonchalance interesting at all.”

She looked at him, and they stared steadily at each other. Neither would back down— their twin gazes of assessment were cool, calculating.

A slow, wicked smile began to spread across Laurent’s face. 

His beauty was of mythic proportions; in the way a Greek bust was memorialized in stone, so too would Laurent’s looks be memorialized in the memories of those he would meet. Jokaste conceded that they were indeed similar.

“We should get lunch more often.” Jokaste decided. “And do not mention anything of value to Auguste.”

“Same goes for Damen.” Laurent said, the smirk still on his face. “I think that I will enjoy spending time with you.”

Jokaste perched her chin on the back of her hand, fingers curling loosely.

She said, “Likewise.”

 

 

 

Damen mentioned, “Auguste thought you had feelings for the Laurent.”

He said it in a fractious, unhappy way, as if he felt poorly on all three of their behalf’s.

“Irrelevant.” Jokaste said, and her demeanor was so dismissively unworried that Damen relaxed as well.

“That’s one way to get his attention, I suppose.” Damen sighed, and Jokaste hid her dimple of smile. She remembered when confusing him was easy. The game was harder, now. 

Her boy was learning.

 

 

 

Things culminated in her graduation, when she already had gotten an internship under Ios Incorporated. She had actually received two offers, and had only bothered applying to two places. It was still more than most people, and both were from companies of prestige. However, they were from Ios and Veretian. 

She had chosen Ios.

Auguste had pulled her aside _at her graduation_ , and hugged her for a good minute. He seemed all choked up and emotional, even though they had known each other for some time and would continue to know each other for a longer time. 

“Emotional sop.” She muttered at him, but returned the embrace.

Then, when he let go and beamed, he said, “I’m so excited for you to work with me.”

Jokaste paused— her hand was still on his arm. It dropped awkwardly.

“I’m not working with you.” She said. “I’m working under Ios Inc.”

A flash of confusion, then surprise, then hurt. The guilt was working its way through her, now.

“I thought that perhaps—I suppose that you must—” Auguste recomposed himself. “It makes sense that you would follow after Damen.” But the way he said it implied that it was more than a friendly bond that compelled her to follow him.

She frowned.

“I do not like Laurent.” Jokaste said, and Auguste started. 

“I know _now_ that you do not—”

“I do not have feelings for Damen either.” She interrupted. He stopped, uncertain. “Beyond the familial kind.”

Auguste said, slowly, “What are you saying, right now?”

Jokaste thought about his strong sense of morality, and his consistent protection of his younger brother. She thought of the time he negotiated with Herode on behalf of the students who had no power to do so, and the time he had comforted her when her grandmother had died, her junior year of college. Of his encouraging texts the morning before tests or the way he visited her, too, when he was visiting Damen. 

“I have… taken a minor liking towards you,” Jokaste pushed out, “Which is why I chose Ios. Otherwise it would be inappropriate.”

Auguste fixed her with a wide-eyed look. He was still silent.

“The feelings have been going on for some time.” Jokaste supplemented, when there was no reply. She hoped she look calmer than she felt.

“How long?” Auguste asked.

Jokaste held still for few seconds. 

“Four years.” She said, shifting her gaze sideways.

There was a palpable silence.

“That’s basically when we first met.”

“I _know_.” She snapped, and when Jokaste looked up, she found Auguste radiantly grinning at her. It was the sort of splitting smile that set a glow on one’s face, but endowed on her this time.  

“I love you.” Auguste said, reverently, and he lifted up her hands, cradling them gently into his palms. She thought her brain was malfunctioning. She felt stupidly and ridiculously overwhelmed with his touch, his scent, his height. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I think it started the first time you insulted me.”

“Oh.” Jokaste said, for she was unable to think of a reply. 

And when Auguste pulled her into a kiss, she settled a hand on his neck, drawing him closer as if to steal his body warmth. 

When he pulled back, hair at the nape of his neck tangled with her grip, his lips bruised and eyes bright, she said, “Oh,” again. 

Whatever he saw in her face must have been pleasing, because then he kissed her again.

 

 

 

+1

“How is it that we are together, and Damen and your brother are still not?” Jokaste asked. They were sitting together on a bench in the city park, Jokaste garbed in a silky green dress and Auguste in a casual shirt and jeans. He was not touching her— just sitting close enough to feel her body warmth. 

“Laurent is a difficult person.” Auguste said. He casted a sideways glance at her that she caught.

“So am I.” Jokaste said, and she put her hand in his. He squeezed her hand.

"It took us four years," Auguste said, "Give them some slack."

She laughed. "That's your job, not mine. I live to keep Laurent on his feet."

"The combination of your minds actually pains me." Auguste said, looking up at the clear sky, and thinking of his closest friend, his dearest brother, and now the strongest woman he knew, all by his side. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes when I'm writing Laurent, he surprises me with what he says and scares the shit out of me even though I'm the one writing him. 
> 
> Anyway Happy Valentines day ya'll!!! beta-ed 2/17/16


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